


Autumn's Fall

by Scarlett_Rogue



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Geralt is a good boyfriend, M/M, Seasonal Affective Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26392009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlett_Rogue/pseuds/Scarlett_Rogue
Summary: Jaskier has seasonal depression and Geralt notices.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 162





	Autumn's Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hi my name is Lex and I'm projecting. Let's do this!

To say that Jaskier was having a bad day was an understatement. He was having a bad week, a bad month. Not a bad year, no. Come Spring time he joined back up with Geralt; they traveled together, shared beds, shared meals, laughed together (well, mostly Jaskier laughed, but occasionally he worked a small smile out of the other man that made his heart beat louder in his chest, and he was sure Geralt could hear it). The year had been good so far. Spring turned to summer, turned to autumn - the days became shorter and the nights colder. Everything became more subdued, and with them so did Jaskier.

It wasn’t like this had never happened before. He was used to the dark cloud that followed him everywhere this time of year. He loved autumn, loved that it was just cold enough that he could wear his thicker doublets, cold enough that he had an excuse to wrap his limbs about Geralt at night, but warm enough that he could be outdoors all day without catching a chill in his bones. He loved the shades of orange and red and yellow that cascaded down from the trees, especially loved the way the mosquitos fucked off for the year. He should be happy, right?

He wasn’t. There was something solemn and cold that festered in his heart this time of year, that grew bigger and louder as the months became darker, something that ate away at him when the first snow fell. Something he’d been able to hide from Geralt all these years by avoiding traveling with him in autumn, but Geralt had asked him to stay with him, to come with him to Kaer Morhen this year, and how could he say no? He’d gotten far too used to sleeping on Geralt’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, hearing his strong heartbeat - a lullaby to his dreams. Leaving Geralt felt like ripping a piece of his heart out and tossing it into the ocean to watch it drift away. 

Now leaving him felt like the right thing to do. He shouldn’t have to suffer Jaskier’s moods, he had enough on his plate already. 

“You’re sad,” Geralt mentioned one day out of the blue. Jaskier had the urge to deny it - save Geralt the trouble - but it was no use. He barely smiled these days, barely talked, hadn’t touched his lute in over a month. Instead he shrugged said nothing, and Geralt, bless his heart, dropped the subject before it’d even begun.

That didn’t stop him from pulling Jaskier into a tighter embrace at night, wrapping his strong arms around the bard and peppering kisses all along his face, his jaw, his neck. It didn’t stop him from spending extra coin on sweets and perfumes and leather-bound journals. Jaskier smiled, something small and reserved, and thanked him profusely. He didn’t have the heart to tell Geralt that he probably wouldn’t use the journal for months; it sat empty in his pack, a reminder of his failures. 

On a particularly crisp day Geralt surprised Jaskier by hoisting him up onto Roach and climbing up behind him, wrapped his arms around the bard’s waist to take the reins. He pressed a quick kiss to Jaskier’s neck and breathed in the unusually dull scent of the bard who lacked his usual ornamented smell. 

“You will be okay,” he said softly. Jaskier took a deep breath and leaned back into Geralt, his head on the man’s shoulder. 

That night he pulled the journal out of his pack along with a quill. He ran his fingers over the soft pages and wrote the only thing he could bring himself to write, the only thing in that moment he desperately wanted to believe.

_I will be okay._


End file.
